


A Promise to Keep

by rhombus



Category: One Life to Live
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhombus/pseuds/rhombus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the break-up talk they <em>did</em> have. Kyle/Oliver college fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Promise to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010. Updating archive.
> 
>  **Kish Fest 2010.** _Prompt: I would a adore a "gap filler" of sorts dealing with Fish's mom walking in on the two of them in college. Whether this the scene it self where she sees them, or the aftermath where Fish "dumps" Kyle...I don't really care. Considering the content...it might be hard to make this much past R, but any rating is fine!_

Kyle couldn't sleep. He rolled over from one side to the other, readjusted his pillow, his arms, counted backwards from one hundred. Nothing worked. He couldn't shut his brain off and just drift away. Not when he had that voice—so angry, so anguished—echoing through his mind, hanging on to the back end of each thought like an unwelcome stowaway.

_"I never wanna see you again!"_

Oliver's words played over and over and over and over again in Kyle's head, at all hours of the day and night. He'd learned that he _could_ tamp it down for short stretches of time, if he really concentrated, but one slip and the words were back, blaring in his ears, making his blood run hot in his veins and his nostrils flare. He'd broken a few pencils in his grip in his less-than-composed moments.

It didn't take long to realize that Oliver hadn't been exaggerating. He was taking the vow very literally. Even if they were in the same room, Oliver wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowledge his presence, wouldn't even sneak a glance at him. Apparently Kyle was _persona non grata_ , and since Oliver wasn't exactly being subtle about it, the other guys in the frat had begun to notice.

When they asked him what was up, he wanted so badly to tell them the truth, to expose his heart to the world once and for all. But, of course, he didn't. Because then Oliver would never forgive him. Never take him back. And that was all the hope he could cling to at the moment, as pathetic as it sounded.

So instead he deflected, or made up some story about Fish being too much of a goody-goody who didn't know how to have a fun time, how they really had nothing in common, how he didn't have time to bother with him anymore so he just decided to cut ties altogether. It sounded good. It sounded plausible. It sounded like the last two years of his life being tossed into the trash and spat on.

It made him sick with anger, which only added to its believability.

He was desperate to talk to Oliver, to have Oliver explain. To talk Oliver down from the fear and the embarrassment and just have him _look_ at him again, because then Oliver would see what he saw. They weren't over. They couldn't be over. Kyle still felt Oliver coursing through his own veins. The connection wasn't severed, even if Oliver was trying his damnedest to cut them off at the legs and let them bleed out. Kyle could still stitch them back up, still save them—if only Oliver would stop running away.

He'd tried to pin him down after his classes, at the coffee kiosk behind the engineering building, in the bathrooms—which only got Kyle a bruise on the shoulder as Oliver shoved him out of the way, not ever once looking at him, and ran off without a word. Again.

Kyle sat up on the bed and slammed his fist into his pillow. He'd had enough. They needed to talk. Oliver couldn't just pretend he didn't exist. If an ambush in the dead of night was what was necessary, then that's what Kyle was gonna do. And he'd leave no room for Oliver's escape. Not this time.

He grabbed a pair of scissors off his desk and tiptoed down the hall. The locks on the doorknobs in the KAD house were ancient and easily picked with a flat edge, no fancy spy work necessary. Kyle slipped one blade into the keyhole and turned, trying to remain as silent as possible. The lock clicked open and he pushed in, slowly, before soundlessly closing the door behind him.

In the darkness he could just make out a large, unmoving lump on the bed. Oliver. Sleeping soundly. Snoring, even. Familiar sounds that made Kyle's chest ache even as the anger continued to burn in his stomach. Oliver slept like a baby, while Kyle could barely close his eyes at night without the memories haunting him. Oliver wasn't affected at all. That just... sucked.

Kyle inhaled sharply, trying to calm himself down. The room smelled like a distillery. It had been weeks since Kyle had been there. The last time had been... _that_ day. When Oliver had looked at him for the last time. His eyes had been so full of love, of caring, of promise. Until the fear seeped in. And then the anger. And then the cold.

The room was a mess. Mounds of dirty clothes and empty food containers and aluminum cans littered the floor. The usual frat house accoutrement. Kyle tilted his head in confusion, because Oliver wasn't the usual frat house inhabitant.

Kyle kicked a pile of dirty clothes away from the desk, clearing a path in front of the door. Slowly, carefully, he grabbed hold of the underside of the desk and pulled. The heavy legs scraped along the carpeted floor, but Oliver didn't stir. Kyle, satisfied with his progress, released the desk and surveyed its new position—blockading the door completely.

Escape was impossible.

Kyle hopped up onto the desk and sat cross-legged. Reaching over, he tugged the chain on the lamp, cascading the room in a soft orange glow.

The lump on the bed didn't move.

"Oliver."

Nothing.

" _Oliver_."

"Urmph." The blanketed lump shifted, lifting one meaty arm over its head to block the light.

Rolling his eyes, Kyle grabbed a thick highlighter out of the pencil holder and chucked it at Oliver. His aim didn't falter; the pen hit Oliver square in the face. Oliver flinched, groaned, then rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Wha—?"

"Get up, Oliver."

Clumsy legs swung over the side of the bed. Oliver sat with his hands folded in his lap, his head down. He yawned, loudly, but didn't say anything. And he still wouldn't look at Kyle.

"Damn it, Oliver. It's just us. Can you _please_ stop pretending I'm invisible? For God's sake—" Kyle cut himself off. He throat had closed up on him unexpectedly, his eyes misting over.

He tried to stay in control of his emotions, but it was the damn room. It held too many memories. Too many hours spent painting his dreams on the ceiling, the music of steady breaths beside him, a whisper of promises in his ears.

And then, in that very room, it all fell away. The dreams crumbled, the promises burning up like fog under a scorching sun. They had never been tangible anyway—the promises. He was starting to think maybe they'd always been phantoms formed in his own mind.

Kyle hopped off the desk and moved forward. Oliver, casting a befuddled look toward the out-of-place desk, heaved himself out of bed, wobbling a bit at first, then stood in front of the dresser, breathing hard.

Kyle moved in behind him, close, but not touching. "We need to talk." He tried to catch Oliver's gaze in the mirror... to no avail.

"Said everything I wanna say, Kyle." Oliver's voice was thick with sleep. "Why can't you jus' leave me alone?"

Kyle's jaw clenched. "'cause we were going somewhere, Oliver. _Together_." He tried to breathe steadily. His anger began to rise out of his stomach. "How can you let that go so easily? I don't understand. Why is this so—so _easy_ for you?" He finally snapped, grabbing Oliver by the shoulders and swinging him around to face him. " _Why won't you look at me?_ "

The stubborn jackass looked over Kyle's shoulders, apparently finding something terribly interesting on the blank wall behind him. Kyle breathed out slowly through his nose, closed his eyes, then cupped Oliver's jaw in his hands and pulled his face down. It was a struggle, but he was stronger than he looked, and he was finally able to stare up into those expressive eyes once more, darkened by the dim light in the room. Always able to read them well, he could see they were angry. Angry and scared.

Oliver opened his mouth, releasing a heavy, alcohol-drenched breath. A strange sense of sadness hung low on that breath. It almost seemed to darken the room around them.

"Oliver." Kyle spoke softly, hoping to ease the anger and fear. "It's okay. I just wanna talk, okay? Just talk."

"'bout what?" Oliver's eyes darted back and forth, but they eventually came back to him.

Reflexively, Kyle's thumbs rubbed against Oliver's stubbled skin. "C'mon, Oliver. Don't play dumb. We need to talk about us."

Kyle felt familiar hands running along his arms, up to his elbow, down to his wrists. He held his breath. Oliver finally stopped moving his hands, gripping Kyle by the elbows and finally wresting himself away. He turned back toward the dresser, and Kyle could see his lungs working through the tense muscles in his back, lurching with each strained breath. The top drawer of the dresser scraped loudly against the frame as Oliver jerked it open.

He slammed a bottle of liquor onto the surface in front of him. His fingers struggled around the cap but finally managed to pull off the offending piece of aluminum. Kyle could only stare in confusion. Who _was_ this person? This wasn't right.

Oliver tipped back the bottle, taking two large gulps, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I already said... it's over." He looked at Kyle's reflection in the mirror. His eyes were sharp now, direct and unafraid, as if the alcohol had cleared away any of his lingering doubts.

Kyle's arms crossed over his chest. He hoped it made him look strong, strong enough to match that gaze, but the mirror told a different story. His body shrank behind those arms, as if cowering.

"Just like that?" he asked, softer than he wanted. The hesitation in his own voice disgusted him. He was supposed to be the one in control of the situation.

Oliver pushed off the dresser and walked toward the center of the room, still gripping the bottle. He slashed his free arm in front of him. "We never should've been."

Kyle's head snapped back. A sudden pain tightened his chest, as if there wasn't enough air in the room.

"What?"

Oliver remained silent, instead tipping the bottle back for another long swig, squeezing his eyes closed and grimacing.

Kyle looked away; his attention caught on all the empty cans strewn about the room. "God, Oliver. When did you start drinking so much?"

He'd never seen Oliver this way before. So aimless, so reckless. None of this made sense. When they were together, Oliver was _happy_. Kyle didn't doubt that. It wasn't a trick of his memory, coloring their relationship in rose. They had something amazing, something special, that lifted them both up and made them better than what they were alone. Why couldn't Oliver see that? Why was he doing this to himself?

Kyle made a grab for the bottle, but Oliver, even recovering from his drunk-drowsy state, evaded him.

"Please, Oliver. Please talk to me." Kyle swallowed, hoping to wash down the lump in his throat—and the beg. "Don't hide from me."

Oliver brought the bottle back to his mouth, but rested it on his lips without drinking. He looked Kyle straight in the eyes, and that stare was so devoid of emotion it made Kyle take a step back.

"It was a mistake," Oliver said, then knocked back another mouthful.

"A mistake?" Kyle didn't need clarification. He understood. And it was like a stab to his gut. "It's been _two years_ , Oliver. That's a pretty long mistake." He looked down, picking at something on his pants. "I fell in love with you."

"That was a mistake, too."

Kyle felt the blood drain from his face. Oliver dug the knife in deeper, twisted it, shoved his hands in, yanked out Kyle's insides and dropped them on the floor.

And he did it calmly, oh so very calmly. A part of Kyle had been hoping for anger, for fireworks, for a knockdown, knuckle-bruising fight they couldn't back down from. It would've meant there was still something there—something meaningful that could spark them back into life. Instead, it was quiet, like the last shallow breaths before death.

"So it—?" Kyle croaked, trying to find his voice. "So it just meant... nothing to you?"

Oliver lowered his head. Back to hiding again.

"I don't get it," Kyle said, swallowing harder. He couldn't stop swallowing. His throat ached so badly. "You told me you loved me. Why would you _say_ it if you didn't mean it?"

"I don't know."

"Just tell me." Oliver's inability to say more than five words at a time was starting to reignite the anger in his stomach. "Did you mean it? Did you love me? _Do_ you love me?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? What does that mean?" Kyle stepped forward, closing in on Oliver.

"I think I—I got confused. I... misunderstood my feelings. Our friendship..."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I see. So, you get off with all your friends, then? Is that it?"

" _I'm not gay!_ "

Kyle flinched, but Oliver flinched too, as if the outburst had caught them both equally off guard.

"You are," Kyle whispered. "And it's okay. We've talked about this."

They hadn't, really—not when Oliver was sober and clearheaded—but they hadn't ever needed to. Sure, Oliver had his fragile moments, drinking and torturing himself with denials and confusion and shame, but not often. And it had passed. Pretty quickly, actually. He'd accepted himself, himself with Kyle... or at least it had seemed that way. Until recent events, of course.

"No," Oliver said, shaking his head.

Tears shone in his eyes, wet pools reflecting the soft lamplight. That meant something— _had_ to mean something. Kyle sucked in his lower lip, took a step forward, and slowly brought his hand to Oliver's chest, to the area directly over his heart. Oliver let out the breath he'd been holding, as if he'd been waiting for Kyle to touch him.

"You still feel it, right?" Kyle looked up into his eyes; Oliver didn't avert his gaze. "You know it's real." Kyle's hand began to move in circles, a calming gesture, as if Oliver were a half-tame beast about to spring away.

Oliver shook his head and whimpered. His eyes were glazed over from the alcohol, but from emotion now, too, and that filled Kyle's lungs with air again. He was getting to him. They weren't lost for good. Oliver brought his free hand up to Kyle's, squeezing it clumsily, as if it wasn't sure it wanted to remove the offending fingers or pull them closer.

The touch of Oliver's skin set off a longing ache in Kyle's chest. He needed to be back in Oliver's arms, where he belonged. The only place he had ever belonged. When Oliver would look at him, love shining in his eyes, it was the strangest thing. For the first time in his life, Kyle had felt like a person _worth_ being loved.

He wasn't going to give that up. Not without a fight. Even if he had to fight dirty.

Even if it meant getting hurt.

Slowly, Kyle brought their linked hands down to Oliver's crotch, which was already bulging.

"You still feel it here, at least."

"I—" Oliver stuttered, breathing fast, assaulting Kyle's face with his alcohol-laden breath. "I d-don't—I don't love you."

Kyle used his free hand to snatch the bottle out of Oliver's limp grip. He swallowed down as much of the burning liquid as his throat could take. Then he did it again, emptying the bottle, letting it fall out of his grip and land on the floor with a thud.

He leaned in close, letting the warm flow of alcohol in his stomach and the familiar smell of Oliver's body wash through him. It felt strangely good to turn off his brain and just _feel_ things.

His lips grazed Oliver's. "You don't love me, but you want me." His hand slipped beneath the elastic waistband of Oliver's pajamas, grasping hold of the semi-hard dick that was reaching up to greet it.

Oliver cried out. A strong hand landed on Kyle's neck, stroking, as if trying to encourage the pace his body craved, even if his brain was fighting it.

Kyle began pumping in earnest. He moved in for a quick kiss. Oliver opened his mouth to it, but Kyle pulled back suddenly, stopping the movement of his hand. Oliver lurched forward, his fingers clutching at the skin of Kyle's neck.

"Our relationship," Kyle panted out. "It was just... just messing around?" Oliver rested his forehead on Kyle's. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn't answer. Kyle exerted a small amount of pressure on Oliver's dick, as if prodding him awake. "So it was nothing else? Nothing more? Fine." Kyle looked down at the firm results of his handiwork. "Fine. But you still want me. What's stopping you now? If you're not gay, if what we were doing wasn't gay, why stop? We can just keep going, the way we were." His eyes fell closed. "No one has to know."

It was a desperate push, but he didn't care. If he could get Oliver back, he didn't care how it was, how much it hurt, because it couldn't hurt worse than _this_. It just couldn't. And they had been so close to going somewhere. Oliver was almost ready—he could tell. This was just a little setback. They could get there again. Even if it took another two years, Kyle could wait. It would all be worth it in the end. He just needed Oliver to look at him again, to touch him again, to love him again.

It sounded pathetic, but he really didn't care.

Oliver's hand moved down his neck, gracelessly clawing at his arm, then his hand, urging it to keep going, or maybe trying to pull it off. It was hard to tell—until Oliver used his other hand to pull on Kyle's chin, bringing his mouth up and crashing into it with artless intensity. 

It was an awkward struggle back to the bed; their legs didn't seem to want to move in unison and they tripped over each other, knees bruising, feet stumbling, until they finally fell onto the un-tucked sheets in a heap of limbs and desperation. 

Kyle felt a tug on his shirt, and then it was pulled over his head, tossed aside, and he shivered a bit, exposed to the chilly night air. Absently, he thought he'd be harder by now, but that didn't matter. This wasn't about him. This was about Oliver, about convincing him to change his mind, about using whatever weapons were in his arsenal to achieve his goal. His hand was still around Oliver, moving in a steady pumping action, and Oliver was above him, panting into his shoulder, making little noises of pleasure.

Kyle stared up at the ceiling. God, was he really this pathetic? Was he really willing to just throw away his—his pride and his dignity like this? To let himself get screwed again by someone who obviously didn't care as much as he did?

 _Yes_ , a traitorous little voice said, echoing out of his chest. _I'd do anything, sacrifice anything for him_.

Suddenly a hand was on him, gripping tight, tugging a little too hard on tender flesh. He wasn't ready for it, wasn't hard enough for it, and it hurt.

"Hey, no. Slow down, Oliver. Easy. Not yet." The hand stopped moving, the vice-like grip loosened, then disappeared altogether. Kyle took a deep breath, put everything out of his mind, until his whole body disappeared and he was just a hand, just a hand that would bring Oliver back to him, one stroke at a time. Because if he was a _person_ doing this, trying to win back such a confused mess of a guy with this kind of underhanded tactic, then he'd have no choice but to hate himself. He'd hate himself so much.

A noise suddenly brought him back to himself. A broken sob. Was that him? Then he felt something, wetness pooling on his shoulder, then sniffling. He opened his eyes and angled his head down. Oliver's shoulders were shaking. His hand was back at Kyle's crotch, fumbling to get access through Kyle's pajama bottoms.

Kyle froze, removing his own hand from Oliver and pulling him up. "Oliver. Stop. Why are you crying?" Oliver ignored him; instead he focused again on his hand's quest. Kyle moved his hips to the side, evading him. "No, stop. You don't have to. What's wrong? Tell me." Kyle gently cupped his cheeks, smoothing away the tears with his thumbs. "Tell me. Why are you crying?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"Sorry you love me. That I can't—" Oliver closed his eyes and rested his head on Kyle's chest.

Kyle stroked a hand through Oliver's hair, ignoring the ever-growing pit in his stomach. "That you can't love me back?"

"This is wrong. So—so wrong. But I can't stop. I hate it. I hate it." Oliver's face was back. He stared at Kyle, his gaze moving back and forth as if he wasn't sure he was really seeing Kyle or if it was all just a dream. " _You_... What I feel... it's... disgusting and—and wrong, Kyle. Don't you feel it? Don't you feel _wrong_?"

Kyle's jaw clenched; he felt tears pooling in his eyes.

He'd never felt more wrong in his life.

"Oliver. Why are you doing this?" It wasn't an accusation. Just a quiet, confused entreaty.

"I had to choose. I had to." Oliver shook his head back and forth, sniffling. More tears fell down his face. "I'm sorry."

Kyle cupped his cheek, pausing the jerky movements. "I don't understand."

"Between you... and—and—and her." Oliver closed his eyes, sobbed harder. "I'm sorry. I can't do anything else. I _can't_."

"Oliver... Please." Kyle could feel everything about to pour out of him, everything inside him that needed Oliver and made him weak and sad and useless, but he was done fighting it down. " _Please_. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. The only—the only good thing in my life." His head lifted off the mattress and connected with Oliver's chest, knocking against it softly, as if asking permission to enter. "Please don't leave me," he whispered.

"I wish I never met you."

Kyle froze, then fell back against the mattress, every muscle in his body aching, as if Oliver had just hit him. He couldn't breathe. All he could do was choke on his own breath and let the tears slip down his cheeks while Oliver's head found its way back to his shoulder.

Biting down on his bottom lip, wiping the tears from his face with harsh, unsteady strokes, Kyle wondered how he had gotten here, to the lowest point in his entire stupid existence, it seemed.

It had been a steady progression, a steady downfall. If Oliver would only look at him, everything would be okay again. If Oliver would only talk to him... If Oliver would only touch him... If Oliver would only kiss him again... only sleep with him again. He'd remember, and they'd be okay.

How wrong he'd been.

And now Oliver was crying again, sobbing into his shoulder, drunk and miserable and confused—and Kyle had done that to him. Kyle had brought them both down to this sad place, and for nothing. He couldn't fix them. They were lost. But maybe he could still fix Oliver, lift him out of this dark hole he'd dug around them. He hugged Oliver closer to him, his hands roaming, soothing, comforting.

"Oliver. What do you need? What do you need from me? Anything, just tell me. Please."

"Just... please forget me," Oliver murmured against his skin. "Like I'm forgetting you."

Kyle's blood turned to ice, crystallizing in his veins, the shards of it ripping through his whole body and tearing him apart.

"Just _forget_ ," Oliver repeated. "I can't live with this inside me. It's killing me, Kyle. _Killing_ me. I just need to forget... us. You." He lifted his head, stared at Kyle, begging him with his eyes. "And I need you to forget, too. Can you please do that? Do that for me?"

Kyle's thoughts came back to haunt him. _I'd do anything, sacrifice anything for him_.

He closed his eyes. He didn't know if there was any heart left inside him to shatter. "Shh. Okay." He was rubbing Oliver's shoulders again. "Shh. Don't cry. I'll leave you alone. I promise."

The words burned through him like acid.

Because unlike Oliver, Kyle kept his promises.

After a few moments, Oliver's sobs abated and he rolled off of Kyle, onto his side, his arm still slung around Kyle's middle. It was heavy, too heavy. Kyle wriggled out from under him and sat on the edge of the bed. He grabbed his discarded shirt and shoved it back over his torso.

He thought he heard Oliver mumble, "It hurts," behind him. He didn't turn around. Instead he stood and walked to the door, his entire body shaking. Quietly, he pulled the desk away from the door, just enough so that he could squeeze himself out of the room. Oliver could deal with it tomorrow.

Trudging down the hall, Kyle supposed he should feel hollow, emptied out. But he didn't. All the broken pieces of him had spread, filling him, jostling together uncomfortably, making him all hot and confused inside. He wanted to scream them out, open his throat and pull them out, just get rid of everything in him that was shouting and wouldn't stop.

Once back in the safety of his own room, he fell back against the door, his hands pulling at his hair. He was so stupid. How had he messed it up so badly? Why had he pushed Oliver so hard? If he had just waited, just bided his time, then maybe Oliver wouldn't have felt cornered, wouldn't have been so adamant about shoving him aside. But he knew that sitting back and doing nothing simply wasn't in him. He always had to do something, to push and pull and fight and scramble, to grab what he wanted before it was no longer there for the taking.

Hot load of good that did him.

He pushed off the door and looked around the room. Forgetting Oliver was gonna take some work. He couldn't just pluck his image out of his brain and expect that he'd never pop up again. Not when he had two years of memories to deal with, two years of thinking thoughts of _us_. Two years worth of crap piled up in his room, setting off visions of Oliver like little fireworks in his mind.

At least he could do something about _that_.

Pulling a trash bag out of the box and unraveling it, he began to shove things in it, anything at all that could be connected, no matter how tangentially, to Oliver. In went the candles, everything within reach that had _KAD_ emblazoned across it, the shirt he was wearing the morning Oliver broke up with him. He stripped down the room, laying bare the counters and walls. He'd sort it all later, decide what to throw out and what to donate, but just then he needed to get it all out of his sight. And fast. Because his legs were threatening to collapse underneath him.

It would be easier this way. He could see the appeal of it, why Oliver had been avoiding him, ignoring him, pretending he didn't know him. It was so much easier than facing the truth.  
 **  
**Drawers were plundered, shelves emptied, trash bags filled. Kyle sat on the edge of his bed, pulling open the top drawer of his bedside dresser. Four eyes stared up at him. He paused, then pulled out the picture. His favorite picture. Kyle couldn't help but laugh at that. His _only_ picture, so there wasn't much competition.

He remembered setting it down on the dresser, leaning it against the lamp, back when it was fresh, glossy, practically untouched. He remembered Oliver's face when he saw it there. The slitted eyes, the flat mouth. But it was only a flash, then his face had softened into a blank mask, and he calmly asked Kyle to put it away, put it somewhere where Kyle could keep it close, but where no one else could see it. Because what they had was for them only. It wasn't for the world. Kyle had nodded, smiled even, because he'd thought it was kind of sweet.

He'd been blind.

A box of matches sat next to the picture. Kyle grabbed them both out of the drawer, set the box down next to the lamp and held the photo lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

He shook his head, anger filling him, anger at himself—for looking so goddamn happy in the picture, so full of hope. He wanted to yell at that dumb kid laughing up at him, shake him by the shoulders and tell him to rip that brainless smile off his face. To stop being so stupid as to think that things would work out just because Oliver had said they would, had said all the right words, with the right amount of feeling behind them.

He stared at the photo. Just stared at it.

He had to re-train his mind. It was possible. With effort, he could build new synaptic connections to bypass the old ones. He looked down at Oliver's smiling face, the eyes not quite crinkling with happiness. He wasn't smiling as big as Kyle was. That smile could mean anything to Oliver. And Oliver could mean anything to _him_. He just had to make the meaning, and then he could dispose of the photo, once and for all. He glanced at the box of matches, then back at the photo. His brain started throwing out labels.

 _Boyfriend._ Well, that was a nonstarter. He rolled his eyes and scoffed at his brain's lame first attempt.  
 _  
Ex_. Better. But still too intimate. Too revealing.

 _Best friend_. God, he wanted it to be true. He felt it. Oliver _was_ his best friend, the best friend he'd ever had. But they couldn't be that anymore. They couldn't go back. _Kyle_ couldn't. Too hard. It had to be a clean break.

_Frat brother._

It would have to do. Technically true, while putting a safe distance between them, yet it didn't negate anything that came before. Omitted, yes. Negated, no. An important distinction.

Oliver was his frat brother. No— _Fish_ was his frat brother. He repeated it in his head over and over again, as if he were memorizing chemical compounds off flash cards. _Frat brother. Fish. Fish. Frat brother_. They needed to be inextricably conjoined in his brain in order for it to take.

 _I don't love you. I don't love you. I don't love you._ He ran it on a constant loop. But after a few seconds it morphed. It wasn't his own voice saying it, but the memory of Oliver's. And Kyle couldn't stand it anymore. He stood from the bed, began pacing the room, worrying his lips with his teeth, running his free hand through his hair.

He couldn't do what he'd promised.

He couldn't run away from his feelings, take the coward's way out. Oliver could do that if he wanted, if he was capable of it, but that didn't mean Kyle had to. He went to the dresser and threw the matches into the trash bag with the rest of his castoffs.

The picture was going back where it belonged, where Oliver had told him to put it. Someplace where Kyle could keep it close, but where no one else could see it. He could pretend, like Oliver had always wanted him to. Pretend to forget. And Oliver would never have to know how quickly he broke his promise.

He began practicing in his head again— _Fish, frat brother, frat brother, Fish_ —all the while his thumb caressed the picture, making circles around Oliver's face. _Oliver_.

 


End file.
